


Need

by SyntheticWinter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 23:52:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4119172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticWinter/pseuds/SyntheticWinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean needs to be needed. And Sam? Sam just needs. </p>
<p>Takes place mid-Season 3; Dean has a little under four months left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need

Sam has no idea how they ended up here.

Actually, that’s not strictly true. He remembers checking in to the motel. He remembers Dean dragging him out to some bar under the pretense of “investigating the locals” and shoving shots in front of him until he gave in and drank them. He remembers things starting to blur around the edges, and that funny feeling in his chest and deep in his gut he used to get whenever he saw Dean flirting shamelessly, as he was doing with the woman behind the bar. That feeling should have been Sam’s first clue that he was much drunker than he would have liked. But he’d kept drinking whatever Dean put in front of him, so it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise when his control slipped a little. The bartender had leaned into Dean, flirting right back and blatantly showing off her ample cleavage, and Sam had reacted. Growling, he’d reached over to grip Dean’s shoulder – _hard_ – and said tightly, “Outside. Now.” Surprisingly, Dean had followed without a word of protest.

They’d walked back to the Impala in silence, and they’d driven back to the motel in the same. Dean had unlocked the door in silence and walked in ahead of Sam, already stripping off his jacket. And Sam had followed, just as silently. And then he stopped.

Now he’s standing here, staring stupidly as Dean sits on the edge of his bed to remove his boots, and it hits him that this will be gone soon. Soon, far too soon – _ever_ would still be too soon – Dean will be gone. Sam’s not ready for that, won’t ever _be_ ready for that, and suddenly he doesn’t know what to do. He turns his face to the side because Dean’s looking back at him now, and he doesn’t want his brother to see the tears he can feel welling up but not spilling over. (He’s always been a maudlin drunk, always wished he wasn’t but it never did any good.)

Dean frowns, (even if he can’t see it, he can _feel_ it, can hear it in Dean’s voice when he) asks, “Everything okay, Sam?” and Sam doesn’t reply and suddenly Dean’s in his face. He’s startled – he didn’t even hear Dean get up. But he forces himself to meet his brother’s gaze, still not saying anything because he knows what he’s thinking would sound stupid and he can’t find any other words. And yeah, he must be even drunker than he thought to be considering doing what he’s considering doing, but Dean only has less than four months left (Sam doesn’t want to admit that he knows the exact number of days, not even to himself) and Sam figures, _screw it._

“Sammy?” It’s the nickname that clinches it. Not allowing himself to think about it anymore, Sam leans forward and does what he’s been wanting to do for as long as he can remember. Dean’s lips are soft beneath his, parted in surprise, and Sam takes the opportunity to dip his tongue inside and taste Dean. 

He tastes mostly of alcohol and, beneath that, a hint of something so purely Dean it takes Sam’s breath away. Or maybe that’s the fact that he _has_ forgotten to breathe. He doesn’t care, just presses himself harder against Dean, willing him to do something, _anything_ , besides just stand there. 

Well, maybe not _anything_. Dean tears his lips away from Sam’s, shoves a hand against his chest, and backs up, putting at least an arms-length distance between them, which in Sam’s mind is exactly one arms-length too much.

“Sammy, what—?” Dean sounds and looks bewildered, and Sam doesn’t have an answer so he shoves at Dean’s arm until he can press in close again, this time burying his face against Dean’s neck, catching a whiff of feminine perfume and scrunching his nose in distaste. He shifts, looking for a better spot, one that smells like _Dean._

A hand winds into the hair on the back of his head and tugs until he’s forced to go with it, forced to meet Dean’s eyes. “Sam.” Dean’s got his firm, I’m-your-big-brother-and-you’re- _going_ -to-do-what-I-say voice on, and Sam shuts his eyes.

“Didn’t like the way she was lookin’ at you.” This time when Sam moves to tuck his head back against Dean’s neck, Dean lets him, though his hand stays in Sam’s hair, sort of almost petting through it and Sam bites back any sounds of contentment or pleasure in case Dean stops. 

“An’ how was she lookin’ at me?” Dean sounds amused, and Sam burrows further into him.

“Like she was gonna take you home,” Sam replies. “And you’d’a gone. You always do.” He suddenly jerks his head up to look at Dean. “But you shouldn’t. You should be with me. I can’t— There’s only—” Sam breaks off, unsure what he meant to say but hoping that, like always, Dean will just _get_ it. And he does, if the softening of his eyes and the wistful quirk of the corner of his mouth are any indication. Sam squirms a little. He’s not been shy about what it will do to him when Dean’s gone, but this? This is a little closer to something he’s kept buried for years, something he never wanted Dean to know about.

Sam makes an abortive little move to bury his face back against Dean’s neck, but Dean’s hand in his hair keeps him where he is. “You are _so_ drunk right now.” The fond expression melts off of Dean’s face, replaced almost instantly by seriousness, and something behind it that Sam can’t quite name. “You gotta be sure, Sam. I need you to be sure.” And Dean’s words aren’t making any sense right now, and the look in his eyes is way too much _guiltneeddesperationself-loathing_ for Sam to stand it anymore.

He leans in and kisses Dean again, softer this time, just a brush of lips, but Dean makes a tiny sound and presses back, returning the kiss, and something inside Sam lights up with pure joy. Without thinking, he presses himself closer, plastering himself against Dean from chest to thigh, and they overbalance, toppling onto one of the beds. Dean quickly rolls them so he’s resting above Sam and crushes their lips together again. He can feel Dean hardening against him (and Sam’s been half-hard since leaving the bar) and he whimpers, bucking his hips up to get some friction. Dean smirks, pins Sam’s hips with his own, and starts up a slow, rolling grind that has Sam’s eyes rolling back in his head until he forces them back to Dean, not wanting to miss a single moment of this.

Sam would be content to stay right where he is forever, surrounded by the weight and feel and scent of Dean, but Dean, apparently, has other ideas. He laughs at Sam’s startled sound when Dean suddenly flips them again, and Sam leans down to shut him up with another kiss. When the need to breathe becomes too great to ignore any longer, he trails tiny kisses and bites along Dean’s jawline, down his neck, nudging the collar of his shirt aside to get to his collarbone. He catches another whiff of perfume and almost growls. Sam wants to just rub against him until he smells like Sam, and like Dean again, and nothing else.

His hands come up to pull at Dean’s shirts uselessly until Dean shoves him away enough to sit up and strip them over his head himself. Sam’s hands immediately go to Dean’s chest, stroking and caressing and just generally enjoying getting to _finally_ touch what he’s wanted for what feels like forever. Dean’s tugging at his shirt and making impatient little huffs, but Sam ignores it in favor of kissing Dean again. His hips are rolling down into Dean’s slow and easy, his hands are tracing hot, smooth skin, and his tongue is busy mapping out Dean’s mouth. For the first time in months, the tightness in his chest eases just a little, and he kisses Dean harder, trying to convey through touch that he’s never letting Dean go, especially not now he knows this is okay.

Dean kisses back sweetly and a little sadly, like he knows what Sam’s saying but neither of them will have a say when his deal comes due, and Sam feels a couple of tears slide down his cheeks. He’s kissing Dean, and he’s crying, and that should be embarrassing but right now he doesn’t even care. He’s going to _lose_ Dean in a few short months.

He slides one of his hands down to Dean’s waist, fingers flitting along the edge of his jeans before dipping under, too impatient to bother with the button or zipper. Dean whimpers into his mouth as Sam palms him, and Sam whimpers back, overwhelmed by the feel of thick, hard flesh in his hand, hot even through the cotton of Dean’s boxers. He shoves his hand inside, and his brain nearly short-circuits.

He strokes Dean as best he can at the awkward angle and grinds himself into Dean’s hip. It doesn’t take long – the feeling of Dean coming hot over his fingers enough to send him over the edge. He tears his lips away from Dean’s to pant against his neck, shuddering his way through it.

Clean-up involves snagging the edge of the motel sheet and using that, seeing as how Sam kind of can’t bear to detach himself from Dean right now. Dean pulls him closer and threads a hand through his hair, his voice hoarse when he murmurs, “I gotcha, Sammy,” and there’s something terribly, awfully _wrong_ about that. _Dean_ is the one going to Hell, not Sam, so Sam should be comforting _him_ , not selfishly taking what Dean’s offering. But he does take it.

He presses himself closer, one hand unconsciously settling in the middle of Dean’s chest, one leg winding itself between both of Dean’s and his head tucking up under Dean’s jaw. Sam’s actually too big to really fit curled up against Dean like he is, but he makes it work; he’s got no intention of moving.

For the first time since he learned about Dean’s deal, he sleeps through the night.


End file.
